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charleygirlTitle: Jottings from a Doctor's Journal 10/?
Author: charleygirl
Rating: G
Words: 798
Characters involved: Sherlock Holmes, Doctor Watson
Genre: Friendship, fluff
Disclaimer: These characters, while out of copyright, were created by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and do not belong to me.
Summary: A collection of scenes and fragments that are too long to be drabbles and too undisciplined to be 221Bs.
BAD TIMING
“I’m sorry, Watson, truly I am.”
I busied myself with checking the bandage. “I know you are, Holmes. Stop apologising – it wasn’t your fault.”
“Yes, but I’ve let you down. I know how much you were looking forward to the trip.” He looked up at me, and for once I could see genuine remorse in his eyes. “You have every right to be angry. It is your birthday, after all.”
“It doesn’t matter. We’ll go some other time.” I made sure that his pupils were reacting properly to the light and went to put my bag away. Holmes’s gaze followed me across the room from where he lay stretched out on the sofa, his brow swathed in linen like a wounded soldier. It was unusual for him to feel guilty about anything, but he was quite correct: I had been looking forward to our holiday, very much so. The prospect of escaping from London - even with a reluctant detective in tow - had been the only thing that kept me going through a difficult few weeks. And now our plans would have to be put on hold because of a silly accident.
The bags were packed and at the door – we would have left the next morning on an early train from Waterloo, bound for the sea air of Southsea, had it not been for Holmes’s suggestion that we take an evening constitutional through Regent’s Park. A group of lads playing an impromptu game of cricket hit a ball wide, and the projectile had the unfortunate fate of striking my friend square on the forehead, felling him like a tree and knocking him cold for the next two hours. Two passing policemen helped me to get him back to Baker Street, and I spent the time alternately worrying about him and cursing our bad luck while I waited for him to come round.
He did so in due course with a pounding headache and double vision. This and his sudden voiding of the contents of his stomach into the nearby wastepaper basket told me with a sinking heart that he would be able to go nowhere for the next few days. My disappointment must have shown on my face, for once his vision cleared and his thoughts began to settle his first words to me were an apology. That in itself was another indication of his concussion, for an apology from the lips of Sherlock Holmes was a rare thing indeed. I immediately felt selfish for – albeit momentarily – mentally blaming him for the loss of my holiday.
“You could still go alone,” he said now.
I carefully made sure that the contents of my bag were all present and correct, slowly closing the clasps. He was right, I could still go alone. I could have my break, take some time to rest and relax and return a week later probably feeling better than I had in some time. I did have that option.
Stowing my bag away beneath my desk, I did not answer immediately. When I turned back to Holmes he was lying back against the cushions, his eyes closed and a frown of pain between his brows.
“I sincerely hope that those policemen whose help you enlisted can hold their tongues,” he remarked, raising one heavy lid to glance at me. “If Lestrade finds out about this I will never live it down.”
“I swore them to secrecy, I promise,” I assured him.
He nodded, and then grimaced. I emptied the packet of painkiller I had retrieved into a glass of water and put it into his hand. He drained the glass without complaint and passed it back to me, massaging the uninjured side of his forehead with his long fingers.
“Will you go alone?” he asked after a pause, during which I was sure that he had fallen asleep. “You should not have your special day spoiled by something as ridiculous as this.”
I sat back in my chair. “No, I should not,” I agreed.
That one eye opened again, this time in surprise. “Then - ”
“My dear fellow,” I said with a smile, “why should you think I would prefer to spend that special day alone? We planned the trip together and we will make it together, as soon as you are recovered.”
Relief flooded Holmes’s pale face, and he let his head fall back against the cushions with a little too much force. Pain creased his aquiline features and he let out a moan.
“Besides,” I added, getting up to go and ask Mrs Hudson for some ice, “how will I dine out on the story of Sherlock Holmes’s fateful encounter with the cricket ball of doom if you are not there as proof?”
Holmes’s response was entirely unprintable.
Author: charleygirl
Rating: G
Words: 798
Characters involved: Sherlock Holmes, Doctor Watson
Genre: Friendship, fluff
Disclaimer: These characters, while out of copyright, were created by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and do not belong to me.
Summary: A collection of scenes and fragments that are too long to be drabbles and too undisciplined to be 221Bs.
BAD TIMING
“I’m sorry, Watson, truly I am.”
I busied myself with checking the bandage. “I know you are, Holmes. Stop apologising – it wasn’t your fault.”
“Yes, but I’ve let you down. I know how much you were looking forward to the trip.” He looked up at me, and for once I could see genuine remorse in his eyes. “You have every right to be angry. It is your birthday, after all.”
“It doesn’t matter. We’ll go some other time.” I made sure that his pupils were reacting properly to the light and went to put my bag away. Holmes’s gaze followed me across the room from where he lay stretched out on the sofa, his brow swathed in linen like a wounded soldier. It was unusual for him to feel guilty about anything, but he was quite correct: I had been looking forward to our holiday, very much so. The prospect of escaping from London - even with a reluctant detective in tow - had been the only thing that kept me going through a difficult few weeks. And now our plans would have to be put on hold because of a silly accident.
The bags were packed and at the door – we would have left the next morning on an early train from Waterloo, bound for the sea air of Southsea, had it not been for Holmes’s suggestion that we take an evening constitutional through Regent’s Park. A group of lads playing an impromptu game of cricket hit a ball wide, and the projectile had the unfortunate fate of striking my friend square on the forehead, felling him like a tree and knocking him cold for the next two hours. Two passing policemen helped me to get him back to Baker Street, and I spent the time alternately worrying about him and cursing our bad luck while I waited for him to come round.
He did so in due course with a pounding headache and double vision. This and his sudden voiding of the contents of his stomach into the nearby wastepaper basket told me with a sinking heart that he would be able to go nowhere for the next few days. My disappointment must have shown on my face, for once his vision cleared and his thoughts began to settle his first words to me were an apology. That in itself was another indication of his concussion, for an apology from the lips of Sherlock Holmes was a rare thing indeed. I immediately felt selfish for – albeit momentarily – mentally blaming him for the loss of my holiday.
“You could still go alone,” he said now.
I carefully made sure that the contents of my bag were all present and correct, slowly closing the clasps. He was right, I could still go alone. I could have my break, take some time to rest and relax and return a week later probably feeling better than I had in some time. I did have that option.
Stowing my bag away beneath my desk, I did not answer immediately. When I turned back to Holmes he was lying back against the cushions, his eyes closed and a frown of pain between his brows.
“I sincerely hope that those policemen whose help you enlisted can hold their tongues,” he remarked, raising one heavy lid to glance at me. “If Lestrade finds out about this I will never live it down.”
“I swore them to secrecy, I promise,” I assured him.
He nodded, and then grimaced. I emptied the packet of painkiller I had retrieved into a glass of water and put it into his hand. He drained the glass without complaint and passed it back to me, massaging the uninjured side of his forehead with his long fingers.
“Will you go alone?” he asked after a pause, during which I was sure that he had fallen asleep. “You should not have your special day spoiled by something as ridiculous as this.”
I sat back in my chair. “No, I should not,” I agreed.
That one eye opened again, this time in surprise. “Then - ”
“My dear fellow,” I said with a smile, “why should you think I would prefer to spend that special day alone? We planned the trip together and we will make it together, as soon as you are recovered.”
Relief flooded Holmes’s pale face, and he let his head fall back against the cushions with a little too much force. Pain creased his aquiline features and he let out a moan.
“Besides,” I added, getting up to go and ask Mrs Hudson for some ice, “how will I dine out on the story of Sherlock Holmes’s fateful encounter with the cricket ball of doom if you are not there as proof?”
Holmes’s response was entirely unprintable.
